Corduroy
by PteraWaters
Summary: Small drabble. Kurt hates corduroy, but not for the reasons one might think. Puckurt.


Corduroy

This was it. Kurt's first kiss from a boy. It was finally going to happen and Kurt knew it wasn't going to fix much, but it certainly would help the hopelessness and the loneliness. Almost there. Lips hopefully well conditioned and primed for giving as well as receiving the kiss. So many stolen moments of practicing on his arm, in front of the mirror, in his dreams while he slept, and now...

As Kurt's hands drew up from his sides to grasp the hips in front of him, his fingers brushed corduroy and jumped back almost on instinct. In fact, Kurt's whole body took a step backward before he even knew what he was doing.

"What's wrong?" the jock asked, tilting his head and watching Kurt with dark hazel eyes. "I thought...I mean, I said all that feelings shit. Didn't you believe me?"

"It's not..." Kurt breathed, staring at one of the boy's dark black earrings and wondering how all those words could have distracted him from noticing the pants Noah Puckerman was wearing. Deep khaki corduroy. Probably department store brand, not that designer brand corduroy was any better in Kurt's opinion. "It's ... God, this is stupid," Kurt muttered.

"What?" Noah asked, bristling at Kurt's mumble. "You know what? Fine. See if I care that no one else in this school wants you and is man enough to admit it." Snorting in disbelief, Puck tried to leave the room and go back to the party, but Kurt couldn't let that happen. Not when he'd been so close.

"Wait!"

Annoyed scowl firmly in place, Puck glanced back and replied, "What?" his voice almost poisonous.

"It's not ... I want to ... For Dior's sake, it's just your pants! I can't stand corduroy! Like, _pathologically_."

"My pants?" Puck asked, laughing a little. "Would you rather I take them off?"

"Uh," Kurt stuttered, picturing the boy before him in his underwear and blushing at the image. "Um… Maybe?"

"What's your problem with corduroy, anyway?" Puck asked as he dropped his pants to reveal dark boxers underneath. "It's comfy, unlike whatever this is…"

Breathless as Puck approached and then fingered his Armani dress shirt, Kurt shivered under the touch, careful not to think too hard about the boy standing less than a foot away in his underwear. Kurt wanted, so badly, for Puck to lean in, to resume the kiss where Kurt had accidentally ended it and finally seal the deal. However, Puck appeared to be waiting for an answer, so Kurt sighed and sat down on Rachel's bed, because if he was going to say this out loud, Kurt couldn't count on his legs to keep him upright. "So..." Kurt breathed, watching as Puck sat down next to him, eyes more fixated on Kurt's mouth and chin rather than meeting Kurt's eyes. "When I was little, my mom was still alive."

"When did...?" Puck asked, and Kurt knew what he meant.

"She died when I was eight. But right around that time, she had this corduroy jacket that she would wear everywhere. Even in the house. It was red."

Oddly enough, Puck put a strong hand on Kurt's shoulder and didn't say anything, just looking expectant. Kurt didn't want to continue. He wanted to forget all about the accident and everything that went along with it, but he couldn't. Puck would want to know the rest. He would keep looking at Kurt and squeezing his shoulder until Kurt spilled the beans. Crap.

"I used..." Kurt choked a little and cleared his throat. "I used to pet the arm of it, when we were snuggled up on the couch or something. Over and over again, Mom would let me pet her jacket, just feeling the way the ridges made my fingers go numb after awhile. She... she died in it. All three of us - me, my mom, and my dad - were walking home from the park and out of nowhere, this pickup jumped the curb..." Kurt flashed back to that terrifying moment and he couldn't speak anymore. He couldn't even breathe.

And that was the moment Puck chose to kiss him. For the love of Versace, could a boy be any more insensitive than Noah Puckerman? God!

Oh, but his kisses were soft, gentle and comforting as Puck clasped Kurt's hand and wound one arm around his shoulder. Each kiss was tiny and light, coaxing away Kurt's last memory of his mother, bleeding to death and pinned between the truck and a telephone pole, her jacket dark and sopping with blood and engine fluids. It took Kurt five years to get over the smell of the crashed pickup well enough that he could work in his dad's garage without thinking about it. But he never got over the feel of corduroy. It still set his teeth on edge.

* * *

_Just a little drabble that infected my mind for the past few days. I hope you liked it, and please review!_


End file.
